House Calls
by Aromene
Summary: Henry will later realise that his ability to be subtle probably needs work. At least where police detectives are concerned. Jo gets sick. Henry takes care of her. I apologise to no one.


Disclaimer: Ostensibly I am writing this to cheer myself up because a) there are far too few Forever fics on the internet, b) it's probably going to get cancelled because the ratings suck and c) I promised myself I wouldn't and that's the most inevitable way I know to do the exact opposite. Owned, managed and operated by Matt Miller and ABC. Even if the later doesn't love it enough to fight for it.

**Dearest Muse,**

**You are a pain in the ass and I hate you. I have three things I need to be working on right now and This Is Not One Of Them. You took up two work days writing this nonsense, which is two less days to study for my exam, prep for my trip, and finish the novel before my deadline. So thanks ever so much for being a useless source of inspiration. Go back to whatever Greek cavern you crawled out of, and if you happen to see one of your eight sisters, send her along. She can't do any worse than you. **

**Sincerely,**

**Your Authorial Responsibility**

**xxx**

**I'm having Firefly flashbacks **_**I tell you**_**. I don't need this right now.**

**Shut **_**up**_** Henry! Once I have my doctorate you can lark on as much as you want. Some of us don't have eidetic memories. **

**How did this end up being 7k words?**

xxx

Henry will later realise that his ability to be subtle probably needs some work. At least where police detectives are concerned.

On Monday, Jo comes into work ill. It's obvious she's been sick over the weekend, judging by the hurried attempt to cover up a reddened nose, hoarse voice and the slight flush of skin that points towards the flu, rather than a cold. She shows up in his lab to ask about last Friday's open case – one that kept Henry awake most of the weekend because he _knows_ he's missed something and can't figure out what it is – and he manages to stop himself from the gut reaction of asking 'why didn't you take a sick day, Jo?' She won't take kindly to being coddled, he knows her well enough for that. If she really is so ill she would have stayed home, case or no.

Instead, he subtly prods her until she glares at him through bloodshot eyes. 'I'm fine, Henry,' she tells him with a look that points towards severe disappointment if he continues his attempts to verbally diagnose her with what she knows she already has. He takes the hint, annoyed with himself that she's seen through his attempt at subtly. He really has gotten too used to working with the dead.

Henry doesn't speak to her again until that evening, when she calls him for an update – which he actually has this time – and proceeds to have a coughing fit over the line violent enough he visibly flinches. Lucas raises an eyebrow at him through his open office door, too curious for his own good, and Henry glares at him.

'Jo, I really think you should go home and rest. Let the others wrap this up.' Which shouldn't be too hard for any of them, considering he's now given them a solid lead on a silver platter. Hanson can probably solve the puzzle by morning with his eyes closed.

'I will when the paperwork is done,' she tells him, because Jo is always very responsible where admin is concerned.

Henry sighs, but he lets it go. It's just the flu, and plenty of people work through it. Jo has worked through worse.

xxx

He's distracted all night though – even Abe notices, though he shakes it off as nothing more than distraction with work – and by morning he's worked himself into what Abigail used to call his 'worried mode'. He's been through every worse case scenario in his head and reason is quickly being replaced by a sort of make-believe panic. He _knows_ Jo is fine, but he won't stop worrying until he sees her.

He likely needs to spend some considerable amount of time contemplating just where this is going and what it means for the future. He knows Abe's opinion on the subject, but Henry is not yet willing to admit to himself that there are _feelings_ involved in his relationship with Jo Martinez.

Unsurprisingly, where Henry's worrying is concerned, Jo is not at work. 'Called in sick,' Hanson says, when Henry stops into the office with all the subtlety he can muster. 'Whatever it is, you can tell me.' By which he means Henry's less than thought-through excuse about coming to tell Jo the thought that occurred to him last night about the case they've now closed.

'No, no, it's probably nothing. There's no need to re-open it. A passing thought, that's all.'

Hanson shrugs, because he's more than used to Dr Morgan's weird thoughts by now. He knows Henry would tell him if he felt it truly important.

'Well, alright then. Jo'll be back tomorrow,' he adds, giving Henry a look that is half-way between puzzlement and understanding.

'Thank you detective,' Henry says, unfailingly polite, and retreats to the sanctity of his morgue.

But the day wears on and his sense of distraction grows. It's obvious enough that Lucas notices.

'Everything alright boss?' he asks, coming back from his half-hour lunch to find Henry still sitting at his desk with the same folder open in front of him.

'Yes, yes,' Henry says, pulling himself from his thoughts so abruptly he drops the pen he's been holding. 'Of course Lucas. A late night is only. Perhaps I am in need of coffee.'

'Probably a good idea, boss,' Lucas agrees. 'Hey, try that new place down the road. It's _great_,' he suggests and goes back to work without another thought about his supervisor's peculiarities. Lucas has enough of his own.

Henry takes the out, divesting himself of his lab coat in return for his coat and scarf. Outside the air is crisp with autumn. It was always Abigail's favourite season. It makes the part of him that allows himself to miss her ache in a way he is far too used to after all these years. Still, autumn in the city is pleasant in a way the heat of summer and the bitter cold of winter are not. The air smells cleaner, the sun softer; the slow pace of the previous season lingering on in the people out and about.

He bypasses the coffee shop without a thought and takes the subway uptown to Jo's neighbourhood. He's entirely certain his presence will not be well received – he should have called – but he's also entirely certain he won't stop worrying until he makes certain it's only the flu and Jo's well taken care of.

He knocks on the now familiar red door forty-five minutes later. There's no hint of movement through the partly open curtains of the front bay window and after a moment, no answer either. He knocks again, louder, in case she's upstairs. There's still no answer though. She could, conceivably, be sleeping.

But logic has nearly been replaced by his worry. He tries the door, in case by some very slim chance a police detective has left their door unlocked, but it does not open. One of the neighbours might, perhaps, have a key in case of emergency. It's a safe enough neighbourhood in that sense and it's the house where Jo was once part of a typical couple in an upper middle class life. Still, neighbours will ask questions.

From his coat pocket he digs out the small mobile that Abe is now forcing him to carry. Half the time he doesn't remember to charge it, so unused to the concept, but there's enough battery left now for a phone call. Jo's mobile is one of the few numbers in the contact list.

It rings five times before it goes to her voicemail. He tries the house phone instead, from memory, and gets no answer there either. There's always the chance she's out too, perhaps to the clinic by the subway station around the corner. Briefly he thinks she would have called him if she _was_ that ill, before remembering it's Jo he's thinking about. Her independence will always win out and they are still – mainly – work colleagues rather than friends.

The house to the right of Jo's has a child's bike outside, signs of a family living within. Quite possibly a mother home during the day with a young child. Henry tries there first, because the other neighbour has two dead potted plants outside the peeling paint on their front door. Not the sort of people you trust with a house key.

The door is answered almost immediately. Henry smiles at her, with as much British charm as he can muster. She's young; perhaps only thirty, and five months pregnant with her second child, if his guess is right. The sound of a television in the next room is overshadowed by the rapid babbling of a young girl, fully impressed with her new-found ability to repeat every word to a song that Henry is entirely certain is not suitable for anyone under the age of eighteen. Children and music today are two things he is struggling to understand.

'Yes, can I help you?' the young mother asks.

'Yes, I do apologise for the intrusion,' he begins, watching the look on her face turn from slight annoyance at the interruption to intrigue at his accent. 'My name is Dr Henry Morgan. I'm the medical examiner for the NYPD, Precinct 11. Your neighbour, Jo is a detective there.' It's a question as much as a statement. Her answer will dictate the likelihood that she has a key.

The woman smiles. 'Yeah, sure. We don't see that much of her; Jo works long hours. Sometimes I don't think she ever comes home. I really hope she's not sleeping at the office.' She looks slightly concerned at the thought.

'Most days not,' Henry assures her. Jo's actually fairly good at not working herself into a hole, unlike some people he knows. 'However she has been sick the last few days and I admit to being concerned. She's not answered her phone today.'

He garners the reaction he is hoping for. The woman's eyes widen in concern. 'Oh, I knew she was sick. I saw her Saturday morning going down to the market and she looked awful. It's been really quiet over there today though. Maybe she's sleeping?'

Henry smiles encouragingly. 'Yes, I do hope she is. Still, the fact that she hasn't answered her phone has me concerned. It's unlike her. I'm worried she may be more ill than she thought, when she left work yesterday. I would like to check on her,' he goes on, seeing the woman nod slightly at this idea. 'However, she has not answered her phone or her door. I wondered if, perhaps, you have a key to house?'

Her eyes narrow slightly, as if she is still sizing him up. However, a moment later she relaxes. 'Yeah, she gave us one, just in case. We used to collect mail for her, when she and her husband took holidays. It's so tragic,' she adds. It looks tragic too, judging by the slight hint of tears in the young mother's eyes, but Henry is well aware that is probably the hormones. 'Just let me get it.' She disappears for a moment into the other room, trusting enough to leave Henry standing in the open doorway of her house, which he takes as a good sign.

'Should I come over with you?' she asks, reappearing with a single key on a ring with a red tag.

'Your daughter,' he starts, gesturing into the other room.

She shrugs. 'She'll be alright for a few minutes. If she stops singing that song before dinner I'll be surprised.'

'You are welcome to, of course,' he agrees, 'however if Jo is as ill as I worry she may be, you'd be best not to be exposed to it.' This time, he gestures towards her stomach.

She flushes slightly, hand going to cup the small mound. 'Oh, yes, you're probably right. And I guess you'd know.' She gives him a look he's not entirely unfamiliar with, though usually not from pregnant and married women. 'Just return the key after. And if Jo needs anything, let me know? I'm going out later to the store; I can pick something up for her if she's needs it.'

'That's very kind of you. I'll return the key immediately; I just need to unlock the door.' He backs out of the open doorway and takes the steps down and then up to Jo's door. The woman stands on her porch watching him. He tries knocking again, just to give her warning if she's awake now. Barging in is probably likely to produce a poor reaction in a police officer. There's still no answer though.

He unlocks the door and edges it open. 'Jo?' He calls. The house seems silent. With a frown, Henry turns back to the neighbour's porch. 'Here,' he says reaching over the railing to hand her back the key. 'I'll leave the door slightly open. If I find her, I'll return immediately to tell you. Just a moment,' he says and slips inside. He leaves the door open a crack behind him.

The living room on the left is empty and the lights aren't on in the kitchen at the back. Quickly he mounts the stairs. Two of the doors off the landing are shut tight, but another is slight ajar. He knocks. 'Jo?' Still no answer. There's a faint beam of artificial light coming through the crack from an otherwise dark room. He pushes the door open.

The bedside table light is on low, illuminating Jo's prone form on the bed.

Henry swears in German. The sheen of sweat on her forehead and the flush of red are enough to indicate a persistent fever. He approaches her slowly though, worried he might startle her awake. 'Jo?' he asks, at a normal volume. She doesn't stir.

She's shivering ever so slightly under the bed covers, only half covering her body. Cough syrup and cold medication, not to mention discarded tissues cover the bedside table. Henry lays a cool hand on her forehead. It's hard to estimate without a thermometer, but he'd guess about 103. High enough to have him worried, especially for the flu.

He returns down the stairs and pulls the door open with more force than is necessary. It bangs off the wall behind.

'Is Jo okay?' the woman asks, as soon as he appears.

'She's quiet ill; a high fever.'

'That's bad. Should I call 911?'

It's not, Henry is aware, _that_ serious, even if rushing her to the hospital would put his mind at ease. 'No, no. At least not yet.'

'You should get back to her then. Knock if you need anything at all.' The woman is clearly worried and just as clearly eager to help.

'Yes, thank you, I will.' He turns back inside, closing the door carefully and takes the stairs two at a time, already pulling off his coat and scarf.

'Jo?' he asks again, returning to her side. She hasn't stirred. 'Jo?' he asks again, louder and more forcefully. A fever of 103 is not enough to cause unconsciousness. 'Jo!' he repeats a third time, sharper and more determined.

She stirs slowly, letting out a pained moan. She blinks her eyes open at him. 'Henry?' she asks, voice a whispered stutter. 'What…?'

'You didn't answer your voice, or the door. I grew concerned. How long have you been like this?' His fingers wrap around her free wrist. Her pulse is fast, but if she's in pain that's not surprising.

'This morning,' she chokes out and then erupts into a coughing fit so violent Henry's own chest hurts in sympathy. By the time the coughing ends she's crying.

He would willingly bet the contents of Abe's antique store that Jo has developed pneumonia. Her cough is far too wet for the flu and the high fever is indicative of a bacterial infection. Which is the only positive he can find, because it least it means antibiotics may improve the situation.

'Sorry,' she mutters, using the already dirty tissue to wipe her streaming eyes.

He grasps it out of her hand faster than she can blink and shoves a clean one into her empty fingers. She manages a weak, if grateful, smile. 'So…this sucks,' she whispers.

'When this is over, you will promise to call me next time.' He gives her a meaningful look that used to work on Abraham any time he misbehaved. It works in this situation too.

'Promise.' Her voice is almost completely gone.

'Right, let's try to make you more comfortable.'

It's a bit useless really, because he can't do a thing to make her body feel better right now. The coughing fits, high fever and aching pain are not solvable by plumping her pillows. But it is a start. Once she's settled more in a more upright position, which at least seems to ease her slightly raspy breathing, Henry makes short work of clearing the nightstand. The medications are useless for this, except the paracetamol. He shakes out two extra strength pills and uses the last of the nearly empty water glass to get Jo to take them. She gets them down, though it causes another coughing fit.

When she finally finishes chocking on the fluid filling her lungs, Henry retreats to the hallway to phone Abe. It's mid-day on a Tuesday so unsurprisingly his son answers on the first ring.

'Abraham, I am in need of your assistant. Immediately,' he adds.

Abe sighs. 'The middle of the day? Again? Alright, how far from the bridge are you.'

Henry sighs himself. 'Not that sort of assistance. Write this address down,' he says, waiting as he hears the antiques dealer shuffle through the draw of things beneath the phone. 'Ready?' Abe grunts in reply but sounds like he is dutifully recording the house number.

'I need you to come as quickly as possible. And bring my medical bag.'

There's a long pause on the other end of the line. 'Is Jo well?' Abe finally asks and Henry almost – almost – smiles in pride as his son's deductive abilities.

'She is not, but the sooner you can join us the better. The front door is unlocked, but do call when you arrive. You shouldn't be in this house for long; Jo is horribly contagious and I'd rather not nurse you through pneumonia. Again,' Henry adds, because it's worth remembering that Abe has, indeed, suffered this before. And that was nearly a month of worry on Henry's part.

Abe verbally winces. 'Thanks for the reminder. I'll be there in thirty. Well, thirty-five.' He hangs up and Henry knows he'll make it in twenty-nine if the traffic lights remotely cooperate. At least they live on the same side of the city as Jo.

Henry drops the phone back in his pocket and returns to Jo. 'Abe is coming for a brief visit, I hope you don't mind. I'm afraid he has something I need.'

Jo just nods, eyes closed in exhaustion. She's been sick since Friday he realises, remembering their brief conversation that afternoon about Thursday's murder. Her voice hadn't sounded quite right. Four days with the flu and now it's developed into worse. Not a surprising timetable, nor is the fact that she's this ill. She's been working long hours the last two weeks – October's murder threw them both for a loop, particularly as the murder was actually 'murders' – three over the course of ten days. They'd caught the killer in the end, but another murder had came across their desk before the paperwork was even complete. Henry's been bordering on tired himself; Jo must have been even worse off to have been so susceptible to illness.

There's not much he can do until Abe arrives, hopefully with what he needs to diagnose her for certain. Still, Henry goes to refill the water glass and wets a washcloth with cool water. It might help to lower her fever somewhat, which will at least make her more comfortable. Jo doesn't resist when he raises her enough to sip the water, but she does make a small sound of relief when he settles the damp cloth on her forever, her eyes scrunching up. Headache, he assumes; not uncommon.

After that he simply sits with her, perched on the edge of the queen-sized bed, holding one hand and rubbing his thumb in a circular motion on the back of her wrist as he takes her pulse again. Still high, but also normal for this type of pneumonia.

'Thank you for coming,' she whispers again, after long enough that he suspects she's fallen asleep.

'I think, by now, you should know me well enough Jo. I will _always_ come,' he smiles down at her and she makes a valiant attempt to return it before another wave of pain races through her.

'Shush,' he says, something he has probably not said since Abe was about ten. 'It will pass.' He raises his other hand to stroke her cheek with gentle motions and slowly her taunt muscles ease. The constant coughing will have made her entire torso ache with pulled muscles. He remembers that from when Abe was ill several years before.

It's a mark of how ill she is that Jo makes no complaint at his childish soothing.

She gives him look of sincere misery when the wave of pain passes. 'Please tell me this will end soon.'

Henry decides he'd best speak the truth. Though there is some positive thinking in the psychology of believing one is less ill than in reality, Jo has never enjoyed being lied to by omission, much less blatantly.

He settles her back against the pillows and plies her with another sip of water. 'I believe you have pneumonia. It's not uncommon to develop it once already ill with the flu, though it's more uncommon for a young and healthy adult.' Jo lets out a pained, but annoyed groan. He makes the expression Abe calls his attempt at commiseration, though Henry likes to think he's better at sympathy than that. 'But because you are young and healthy,' he adds, emphasising the 'young' part though it doesn't even earn him an attempt at a smile. 'You will recover quickly, helped along by a very strong course of antibiotics. I'll send Abe back out to the pharmacy as soon as I confirm the diagnosis.'

'Great,' Jo says, curling slightly away from him and squeezing her eyes shut. Her heart rate jumps slightly under his fingers, indicating another wave of pain. A warm bath would help considerably, but her fever is too high to risk that.

'I am sorry.'

Her shoulders start to shake softly and for a moment he's certain she's crying again until she lets out a sharp laugh, pained though it is. 'Oh Henry,' she mutters into the pillow.

He raises a silent eyebrow, though she can't see him. 'I'm confused, are you laughing over the ridiculousness of being ill or because I am offering my sympathy?'

She turns over with slow care. 'Because you're apologising. For me being sick. Henry, you don't control my immune system, although I kind of wish you did right now.'

At that he smiles down at her. 'I'm sorry. For you being ill and for apologising. You're very right, I'm afraid this is out of my control.'

A faint knocking echoes up the stairs. 'That should be Abraham. I'll only be a moment. Try to rest Jo,' he orders gently, patting her hand one last time before he rises to meet his son at the bottom of the stairs.

'As asked,' the older man says, holding out the black bag that he so painstakingly tracked down and returned after mistakenly selling it. 'Pneumonia huh? Tell her I sympathise, would you? Anything else you need?'

'A trip to the pharmacy in a moment. In the meantime,' Henry says, taking the bag, 'would you mind making her a cup of tea? Don't let the water boil though, her fever is high enough as it is.'

Abe nods, already edging down the hall to what he assumes is the kitchen. 'Shout if you need anything else.'

'Thank you Abraham,' Henry nods at him, turning to climb the stairs once more.

Jo's eyes are closed when he returns to her side, but she's not asleep. 'What exactly are you planning on doing?' she asks in her hoarse whisper, opening one eye to appraise him standing beside her.

'Technically pneumonia should not be diagnosed without a chest x-ray, but short of dragging you off to the hospital to sit in a waiting room for hours, I have faster means.'

'Joy,' she says, though this time it comes out as barely a breath of air. Talking is impacting her voice even more and she winces at her sore throat. Instead she nods softly.

Henry takes that as assent. He should – likely – give her a proper examination, but all he needs to confirm the illness is to listen to her congested lungs. However, doing so involves her sitting up and that's not going to be at all pleasant. Still, the sooner he assures himself the sooner he can send Abe to the pharmacy.

'Jo, I'm going to help you sit up and I'm sorry that it's going to hurt.'

She sighs with a slight nod and attempts to pull herself into a sitting position.

'No, no, let me do it. Just relax.' Slowly he eases her upright away from the pillows, heart clenching at her pained moans as her body protests the movement. Once upright, she immediately has another coughing fit.

He takes advantage of it, one hand on her back and the other her chest, feeling the tremors wrack her slight frame. He can _feel_ the congestion.

Henry hands her a tissue when the coughing stops, noting that she's bringing up mucus now, which is actually a good sign, though Jo may feel otherwise.

'Ugh,' she says, wiping it away as she leans her full wait on Henry's arms. He eases her gently towards him, propping her up against him as he digs into his bag for the stethoscope. She sighs against him as he presses the bell against her clothed back, noting how soaked through her pajamas are. She feels like a small ball of heat against him.

He examines her as quickly as he can, then eases her back down onto the pillows, replacing the wash cloth that has fallen off her forehead.

She raises an eyebrow at him above her fever-glazed eyes.

'Alas, definitely pneumonia and although I cannot be certain, the fever would suggest bacterial. I will send Abe off immediately. Once on the proper course of medication, you should be feeling significantly better by the end of the week.'

She nods slightly, eyes closing again. Henry wastes no time in digging out the prescription pad he still keeps – and it has certainly come in handy over the years – and writing a hurried note for the most likely antibiotic, asking for a strong dosage. Best to start her on the highest safe dose and hope it begins to improve her symptoms quickly.

He rises gently from the bed and pads downstairs to the kitchen. 'Here,' he says, handing over the prescription to Abe. 'I'll take the tea up to her.'

'How is she?'

Henry grimaces.

'Right. I think I saw a pharmacy down the road so I won't be long. You take good care of her. I'll leave the medication inside the door when I come back and then head home.' Abe pats him on the shoulder as he passes by, squeezing gently and Henry gives him a smile of thanks.

Abe has made herbal tea, chamomile his nose detects, which will be quite fine. The mug is cool enough to hold in his hands, but he carries it carefully up the steps in order to not spill a drop. Jo appears well on her way to returning to slumber, but the tea will help to loosen the congestion in her chest and the liquid will certainly improve her slight dehydration.

Jo slits her eyes open when he sets the cup on the nightstand.

'Tea,' Henry offers. She nods slightly, then squints at him. He tilts his head slightly in that characteristically questioning manner that both Abe and Jo have called him out on before. 'What it is?'

But her voice is very much gone, though she tries to form the words anyways, finally using her failing strength to stretch an arm out towards him. He kneels down at the side of the bed, making it easier for her to reach, but he's somewhat surprised when her fingers fumble slightly with the stethoscope that he has completely unconsciously slung around his neck, a movement once so comforting and practiced. He smiles and takes her hand in his.

'Abe's gone to the pharmacy. He'll be back soon. And he's made you some tea, so you had best drink it. You wouldn't want to offend the chef.'

Jo makes a weak attempt at a smile, but she doesn't fight as he slightly raises her head enough to sip the soothing liquid. She only manages a few mouthfuls, but that's better than nothing. When he lays her back down he removes the washcloth and returns to that bathroom to wet it in cool water again. It certainly seems to sooth the headache he's certain she has, even if it won't do much to lower the fever until the medication begins to fight the infection. He feels her forehead gently before replacing the cloth, noting she doesn't appear cooler. The paracetamol will only just have begun working.

Jo closes her eyes and nestles into her pillows and blankets. Henry rises to retrieve a chair that sits at the desk across the room and sets it down gently at her side. Hopefully she will sleep for a time, until he needs to waken her to take the first dose of antibiotics. Rest is the best thing for her right now, and one of the precious things her body needs most. He wishes there was something more he could do for her, but he's glad that at least he trusted his instinct that something was wrong, though he wishes he'd come over first thing in the morning after his night of worry.

He watches her, half monitoring her breathing and the flush of fever from a medical perspective, and half simply taking the opportunity to study her without worry of being caught out. She reminds him sometimes of a woman he met in 1875, though he knew her less well than he knows Jo. Still, there's a similarity there in the curve of her cheekbone and the rise of her nose. And their personalities certainly have similarities, he thinks with a smile.

He wishes, sometimes, that he could tell Jo the truth. That it would be a large relief to have someone else that knows. That understands, at least so far as anyone that does not have his condition can understand. But then, the relief of knowing there is someone else out there _with_ his condition has not manifested itself. Adam has been only a worry, and at other times a paranoia. But Jo would not be like that. Jo would be like Abe, a quiet and supportive confidant. He knows that, though Abe likes to remind him repeatedly nonetheless. It is not the worry that she will expose him that keeps him quiet. Rather, he knows what a secret does to a person and he does not wish that for Jo. Does not wish for her to have to carry this burden – his burden – even though he knows she would not fault him for sharing it. But he won't, not until such a time as he has to, and once again, when that day comes, Henry is going to give serious consideration to running instead. It would be better for Jo if he did.

Jo moans softly in her sleep, twisting slightly to find a more comfortable position. It causes her to cough weakly, though she does not wake. He reaches out to stroke her warm arm until she quiets again. Downstairs he hears the soft opening and closing of the front door, signally Abe's return. He gives Jo once last glance before he leaves the room.

Abe has set a small white paper bag with the antibiotics on the front hall table, and beside that sits a larger paper bag with soup, saltines and orange juice. Henry shakes his head with a smile, picking up the larger bag to empty in the kitchen. Abe probably went though the fridge and cupboards to find there was no suitable food for an invalid. It's kind of Abe to think of it, since he hasn't. When he opens the fridge to put the orange juice away, he finds it woefully bare. If Jo went to the market on Saturday, she didn't purchase much in the way of food. He leaves the rest on the counter and takes the small bottle of pills from the pharmacy bag upstairs.

Jo seems to be resting more comfortably, helped no doubt by the painkillers that are now working. It would be best to wake her, for her to start the antibiotics sooner rather than later, but she might not fall back to sleep if he does. He decides to give her an hour of rest, unless she wakes sooner.

Beside the corner desk in the room is a bookshelf. There isn't much in the way of a selection and most of the books don't strike Henry as the type Jo reads, so they must have belonged to her husband. He takes one down at random; choosing the cover more because it lacks the characteristic sheen of modern book flaps and flips it open only to discover that it's a copy of Moby Dick, pages worn with age. He scans the bookshelf again and comes up empty. Reading is still preferable to letting his mind wander, so he resumes his seat in the hard-backed chair and opens to Chapter 1.

Three chapters later Jo jolts herself awake in a coughing fit more violent than any he's witnessed. It takes her a full two minutes to get her breathing under control once the coughing ceases and Henry is worried enough about her trembling in his arms that he listens to her lungs again. They sound no worse, but once she can breathe again he plies her with water and medication and several sips of now cold tea.

'Thanks,' she rasps, when he settles her back against the pillows. She blinks at him, considering. 'Are you staying?'

'I think I had better. You should be under observation, at least for the short term. Speaking of which, I had best put in a call to the lab. I believe I'm owed several sick days, at least,' he says with a smug grin. The only time he has ever made use of sick days is when Abraham has needed him at home. Whether it is a by-product of his immortality or simply the healthy immune system of a thirty-five year old, Henry is rarely ill and then only with the mild annoyance of a cold. Or, once, food poisoning from the Thai place down the road the month he moved into the antiques store. They have not eaten there since.

She raises an eyebrow at him. 'When can I go back to work?'

'Next week Jo, at the earliest,' he admonishes. 'Until then, sick leave or no, you will not be leaving this house.'

She slumps against the cushions. 'Thought so. Tell Hanson not to worry.'

It's Henry's turn to raise an eyebrow. 'Hanson? Worry? I find that somewhat unlikely. But I shall tell him nonetheless,' he adds, when it looks as if Jo will contradict him. 'Try to sleep again.'

She obeys him enough to close her eyes, though he knows she won't allow herself to sleep until after he's called the precinct. He leaves the room as far as the landing so that she won't attempt to grab the phone from him to speak to Hanson, or the Lieutenant, herself.

He calls Lucas first. 'Oh, yeah, boss,' he says, when Henry explains, sounding more distracted than he has any right to be. 'No problemo. You take those sick days. I'll hold down the fort.'

Henry narrows his eyes at the stairway wall. 'Lucas…' he starts.

'No touching your things, no using your desk and no making sweeping assumptions without hard evidence in an attempt to emulate you. Right on, boss.'

Henry sighs. Perhaps he _has_ trained Lucas too well. 'Thank you. Do, however, call if you need my assistance.'

'Will do!' Lucas says and hangs up on him.

Hanson is, at least, a bit less distracted and a lot more polite.

'Somehow, I'm not surprised,' he says, when Henry explains. 'Well, I can't say I'm happy she's sick, but I'm glad she's going to get a break. She needs it. I'll cover here. She's got sick days to spare. I'll brief the Chief, but it shouldn't be a problem. It's been a quiet day.' Even New York can have off-days, Henry supposes, where murder is concerned. That doesn't explain why Lucas sounded harried.

'Thank you, Detective. If you should need anything, however, please do call me. I will leave Jo's mobile on, in case, but it would probably be best if you go through me. I don't believe she is going to be up for anything other than rest for the next several days.'

He can hear Hanson nod over the phone. 'We'll handle things. Tell Jo to get better soon, but enjoy the rest. And Dr Morgan?' he says, hesitating.

'Yes Detective?'

'Look after her?'

Henry huffs. 'I assure you that will be my entire focus for the rest of the week.'

'Thanks. Take care of yourself to,' Hanson adds, hanging up. Henry stares at his phone, perturbed. Does no one say 'goodbye' anymore?

'All taken care of,' he tells the still-awake Jo when he slips back inside her bedroom. 'Hanson said not to worry about anything.'

'Yeah, he would. I'll try not to,' she promises. 'Don't think I'm awake enough to try right now anyways.'

'Sleep then. Doctor's orders,' he smiles down at her, expression softened with worry. She's asleep again before he's even reached the bottom of the first page of Chapter 4.

Henry is surprised when Jo doesn't wake until darkness has fallen. Her fever is slightly lower – 102.2 he now knows – but that is mostly thanks to the paracetamol and not the antibiotics. They'll take several days to significantly improve her health. Until then, at least the pain reliever might keep her comfortable.

He wishes, quite ironically, for willow bark tea. There is a certain part of him that, after a hundred and fifty years without the benefits of modern pharmaceutical drugs, still misses the old remedies that seemed to work no worse, and with fewer chemicals. It may not have tasted pleasant, but it worked in his experience.

'Henry,' she whispers, eyes glazed in sleep now, rather than a burning fever. 'What time is it?'

'Just after seven. In the evening,' he adds, because in her sleep-addled state she might think he means morning. 'How do you feel?'

She seems to assess that for a moment. 'Not better, but not worse. Headache is gone now.'

'Painkillers will do that. I think another does is in order, if I help you sit up?' She nods slowly and only winces briefly as he helps her upright against the headboard, plumping the pillows behind her. She gets the pills and water down without any coughing fits, though it's just a matter of time. Her breathing sounds slightly better, but there's still a rattle in her chest he can hear without a stethoscope.

'So, this is going to be the week huh?' she asks, once the glass of water has been consumed.

'You'll begin to feel better by the end of it, but yes. Until I deem you well enough to be up, you're going to remain in this bed and rest. Hanson and Lucas have everything well in hand.'

She quirks an eyebrow at him.

'I'm rather certain neither of them will burn the precinct down while we're away,' he clarifies.

'I suppose that's good enough. Alright, I'll stop trying to worry about work. Or anything!' she hastens to add, coughing slightly when he gives her a look. 'I'll just…rest, and be miserable.'

'That is generally what normal people do when they're ill.'

'Ugh.' Jo presses her head into the pillows before pulling away slightly, sniffing through a nearly blocked nose. 'Can I have a shower?' she asks, turning begging eyes on him.

'You can have a bath, and a lukewarm one at that.'

She knows she's not going to win the battle. 'Okay. And clean sheets?'

'Of course. Rest while I draw the water. And then perhaps you'll feel up to dinner.'

She blushes with embarrassment. 'There's no food in the house.'

'There is now. Ah,' he says, holding up a finger before she questions it. 'You can thank Abe. It's not his homemade chicken soup, but I'm sure it's entirely edible.' He pats her hand gently and disappears into the bathroom. At least the house is nice enough to boast a reasonable size bathtub. He turns the water on and lets it run to a suitable temperature. Jo will probably find it too cool, but any warmer will send her fever back up again, and she'll be even more uncomfortable. He waits for it to fill, setting a towel on the side of the tub and makes sure anything she might need is within reach.

'The bed stuff is in the closet,' she says, when he comes back into the room, pointing to the only other door in the space. 'Whatever's on top is fine.' She makes a move to attempt to get up and Henry manages to just catch her arm before she tips over sideways off the bed.

'None of that. You're going to be weak for a few days, which means no attempts to get up on your own.' He sees the instant she puts the pieces together, because she flushes redder than he's ever seen her. 'Jo, I think I should reiterate that I'm here in my capacity as a medical professional. And as a friend. But mostly as your doctor right now. If you want a bath, this is how it will be.'

He can tell she has to think about that for a moment, but she takes his outstretched hand at last. He saves her any further stress by picking her up completely, despite her muffled protests. She weighs less than he might have thought; she's always been slender and is not overly tall, but she feels even less than that. He sets her down on the side of the tub, keeping one hand on her shoulder as she sways back and forth. Dizziness wouldn't be a surprising symptom, considering. Jo makes no further protest as he helps her out of her pajamas, eyes carefully on her face. The effort of staying upright is enough to distract her from his movements. Finally, divested of all her clothes he lifts her gently into the water.

'Ah!' she whines. 'Henry that is _not_ warm.'

'No, it's not. It's about twenty degrees colder than you are right now. Which is warm enough for that fever.'

She glares at him, but the look is reminiscent of a kitten attempting to look fierce and he stifles the laughter he feels bubbling up. 'I'm going to change the bed. I'll be right outside. If you need anything, or you feel lightheaded again, call me _immediately_.' He cocks his head for good measure until she nods slightly.

He closes the door half way, to allow her some small measure of privacy and begins stripping the bed of the sweat-soaked linens. He marvels that, in all his years, it wasn't until Abigail was gone and he was on his own that he learned any sort of useful domestic chores. And cooking is still the one thing that mostly escapes him. Abraham finds the humour in it, but most of the time Henry can't be bothered to care. He has other things to worry about, even if he has the time to worry about everything.

When the bed is remade, he opens the window a few inches, letting in cool autumn air. It's a relatively quiet street where Jo lives, so he decides to leave it open for the time being. The place needs a good airing out.

'Jo?' he calls, coming up to the bathroom door but remaining outside. 'Are you alright?'

'I'm still conscious, if that's what you're asking,' she says, voice gravelling. Her breathing sounds slightly better though, at least until she descends into a coughing fit a moment later. Henry braves her embarrassment to bring her the box of tissues.

'I think tea, perhaps, and soup might be in order?' he asks, when's she done hacking up the fluid that's filling her lungs.

She nods at him weakly, still blowing her nose. 'I'll shout really loudly if I'm about to drown.'

That's unlikely, with her voice as it is, but he's pretty sure she could manage to be heard downstairs if needed. And she's managed five minutes without passing out; a very good sign.

Downstairs he sets the kettle to boil again and pours a can of soup into a small pot scrounged from the cupboard. The kitchen is spacious, but Jo only seems to use part of it as an actual kitchen. Half the table is spread with work and a laptop and half the cupboards are full of things other than food and kitchen utensils. He wonders if it was different when Sean was alive. Likely not. He understands they both worked long hours.

Henry tunes his ear upstairs, in case Jo calls for him while he makes two cups of camomile. He'd prefer coffee right now, but Jo will take it as a personal affront if he attempts to drink a cup in front of her. And he is not letting her near any caffeine until she's feeling better. She needs sleep, not to be high strung on stimulants.

Abe has bought a loaf of brown bread for the soup too, but Henry decides Jo would be better with the crackers. It takes him two trips upstairs to carry the bowls of soup, mugs of tea, and utensils, but by the time everything is set on the bedside table, or the bedroom desk, Jo is ready to get out of the even colder water. He shuts the window before he goes in to help her out, being careful to keep the large bath towel around her dignity as much as possible. Jo leans heavily against him as he helps her out of the tub and continues to lean her forehead against his chest as he dries her.

His mind wanders to Abigail, as it often does in moments he is caught off guard. She was rarely ill in their time together, but once or twice, when she had had a particularly stressing day, he would draw her a warm bath and wash her hair for her, and afterwards he would dry her before taking her to bed for other forms of stress relief.

But Jo is not Abigail, as he all too often had to remind himself. Perhaps she could be, one day, someone who loves him as much and who he loves in return. Henry is not so staid in his ways to think he will only ever love once, or will Jo. His slow movements of the soft towel over her bare skin is not sexual as it had been with Abigail. Not yet, at least. Perhaps one day they can share this moment as something other than the care and tending it currently is.

Jo hums softly against him, a meaningless melody of rough notes, but he doesn't mind it. Does not mind that this is all there is. There is comfort in a friend who trusts him as much as Jo does, and asks for so little in return. She is not like most people he has met, who prod and poke and always leave wanting of answers. Jo has her own secrets, but he knows that she holds them to her not because she doesn't trust him, but because – for the time being – they are all she has that are her own. One day, perhaps, they can be honest with each other.

When her body is dry he wraps her hair in the damp cloth, squeezing gently to wring out the moisture that has seeped into it. It's not sopping wet, but even damp hair will make her feel worse if she catches a chill. He lifts her body into his arms and takes her back to her bed before judiciously helping her into the clean pajamas he searched the dresser for. Jo doesn't seem to notice that that means he's now gone through her underwear draw, something he knows the average woman deems sacred. Even Abigail was loath to let him go through her clothing, though she was happy enough to be undressed when the occasion called for it.

Jo curls herself into the clean sheets, pulling the duvet around her to ward of what she perceives as cold air.

Henry holds the mug of tea under her nose. She cracks open one weary eye at him, glances down at the mug and then struggles into a half-reclined position against the headboard. He's pleased to find her both thirsty and hungry, though the effort of eating exhausts her even more.

'I'm just going to sleep now,' she murmurs, sliding back down the bed again when she is finished dinner. She opens one eye to observe him again. 'Are you going to stay here and watch me sleep?'

Henry shrugs, because once upon a time he would have thought of nothing else with a patient in need.

'There's a guest room on the left. There's no use you losing a night of sleep. Please use it Henry. I'll feel better about this if you take care of yourself as much as you take care of me.'

That's sound reasoning, and he is feeling the weariness that comes from a sleepless night of worry. 'I will, I promise. But not until you're asleep and I've eaten.'

'Okay,' she mutters, eye already closed again. Henry counts to ten before she's sound asleep.

His soup and tea are lukewarm at best, but still better than nothing and he doesn't want to go downstairs to reheat them. He leaves the dishes for the morning, and takes his unfinished book to the spare room. It's dusty, and probably hasn't been used in a year or more, but the bed is made and Henry is particularly uncaring about his sleeping conditions most of the time. Months spent languishing in prison and asylums will do that to you.

He wonders how long Jo will let him stay. A day, at least, he can wheedle out of her for medical reasons. By Thursday, however, she will probably be thoroughly sick of being taken care of, and on her way to being able to take care of herself. Perhaps if he managed to maintain his presence until dinner, and then leave her alone for the night – with her promise to call if she feels remotely worse – that will do. In his mind he knows she is not so sick as to need constant care. The hospital would have sent her home again, had he taken her for the x-ray. But his heart wants to stay. He cannot do all that much to help, but everything she doesn't have to do for herself will help her to feel better and ease the strain on her body. That's sound reason and logic.

He wonders if it'll work on Jo.

xxx

**That's all you get. ALL YOU GET MUSE. I have a final exam in (bugger) 12 days and I have not even begun to prep for it. **

**Happy daydreaming to all my readers.**


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